The silence in the apartment is different now.
Before, it was a waiting silence. A pause between breaths. Now, it feels final. Like a library after the lights have been turned off and the doors locked.
One last walt though the apartment…just because.
I walk a slow circle around the living room.
Everything is pristine. The cushions are fluffed. The coasters are stacked. There is no dust on the baseboards.
My eyes land on the chair in the corner.
The blue sweater.
Mark's sweater.
I pause. My internal ledger flashes red. Rule #2: Return All Borrowed Things.
Technically, this belongs to him. Technically, I should have put it in the bag. I should have handed it over with the key.
I walk over to it. I pick it up. It is soft, worn thin at the elbows. I bury my face in the collar. It smells like him—that mix of laundry detergent and living skin.
"It's not borrowed," I whisper into the wool. "It's an inheritance."
I am claiming it. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, and in a few minutes, the law won't apply to me anymore. I need this. I need one thing to wrap around me that feels like warmth.
So, Rule #2 is intact. I didn't borrow it. I stole it. And you can't prosecute the dead.
I carry the sweater into the bedroom.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. The sound is startlingly loud, like a gunshot in a canyon.
I freeze.
I almost don't look. I almost turn it off. But the screen lights up the dark room, demanding attention.
Mark: Good night. I love you.
My heart gives a painful, hollow thud.
He is checking in. Just a gentle poke. A soft thread connecting me to the world I am trying to leave.
If I don't answer, he might worry. If he worries, he might call. If he calls and I don't answer, he might come over.
Rule #3: Kill the Hope.
I have to answer. I have to seal the tomb.
I pick up the phone. My thumbs hover over the glass.
I love you.
Those words used to mean "I want a future with you." Now, they mean "I am sorry for what I am doing to you."
I type: Love you too, babe.
I stare at the word. Babe.
I have never called him that. Not once in two years. It was always "Mark" or "Honey" or "Hey you."
"Babe" feels casual. It feels easy. It feels like something a girlfriend with a future would say. It feels like a lie designed to settle his heart rate.
I press send.
Delivered.
I wait five seconds. Ten.
The screen goes dark. No reply. He is satisfied. He thinks I am tucking myself in, safe and sound. He is probably smiling, thinking we turned a corner.
I put the phone down. Face down.
Now, for the final piece of administration.
Rule #1: Do Not Be a Burden.
This is the most important one.
The world is full of violent exits. Screeching tires, high falls, loud bangs. They leave trauma. They leave stains on the pavement that strangers have to scrub away. They leave images that burn into the retinas of first responders.
I will not be a stain.
I will not be a splatter on the sidewalk for a child to see on their way to school.
I look at the nightstand.
The bottle is there. Amber plastic. White cap.
Clinical. Clean. Quiet.
Next to the bottle sits my laptop. The lid is open, the sleep light blinking slowly, like a heartbeat.
I touch the trackpad. The screen flares to life.
The wallpaper is a landscape from Elyndor. Purple mountains, twin moons, a dragon soaring in the distance.
I see the icon for the game.
I feel a sudden, sharp pang of regret. It's not for the job I lost, or the trips I didn't take. It's for her.
QueenSlayer_92.
My avatar. A Level 80 Warrior. She is currently parked in a tavern in the starter zone, where I left her three days ago.
She has legendary armor. She has a sword that glows with blue fire. She has scars I chose for her face because I wanted her to look like a survivor.
She was strong. She could fight dragons. She could take a hit that would crush a normal person and stand back up, drinking a health potion, ready for more.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the screen.
I wish I could be her. I wish I could just drink a red potion and watch my health bar refill. I wish my demons were physical things I could hit with a sword until they dissolved into loot.
But my demons aren't smoke. They are in the chemistry of my brain, in the wiring of my thoughts. You can't kill smoke with a sword.
"I won't be able to take you on one last quest," I say. My voice cracks.
I imagine her waiting there. Days will pass. Then months. Then years. She will stand in that tavern, frozen in time, waiting for a command that will never come. The servers will eventually shut down. The world of Elyndor will go dark.
And she will vanish, undefeated, but abandoned.
"Goodbye, QueenSlayer," I whisper. "You fought better than I did."
I close the laptop.
The room goes dark again.
It is time.
I sit on the edge of the bed. I pull Mark's sweater around my shoulders. It is a poor substitute for his arms, but it will have to do.
I reach for the bottle.
I reach for the glass of water.
My hand is steady. That surprises me. I thought I would be shaking. I thought I would be terrified.
But I am not terrified. I am just... ready.
I am like a traveler who has been walking for days with a heavy pack, and finally, finally sees the inn. I just want to put the pack down.
I take them.
One by one at first, then a handful.
The water is cool. The swallow is mechanical.
I set the empty glass down on the coaster.
Rule 1: Don't leave a mess.
I lie back.
I pull the duvet up to my chin. I adjust the pillows so my head is propped up comfortably. I smooth my hair down.
I want to look peaceful when they find me. I want to look like I am just sleeping.
I close my eyes.
I wait.
The silence of the apartment wraps around me.
Slowly, the edges of my thoughts begin to blur. The sharp corners of my pain start to round off.
The heavy wool blanket that has been suffocating my brain for years... it's lifting. No, not lifting. It's becoming the only thing there is.
I think of the succulents in the window. They will need sun tomorrow.
I think of the lasagna dish on my mother's porch.
I think of Mark's phone lighting up with the word Babe.
I think of QueenSlayer, standing in the tavern.
The images are getting fuzzy. Like an old film reel burning out.
I am tired.
I am so, so tired.
Please.
No more waking up.
No more noise.
No more pretending.
No more sunrise.
No more... me.